Sixteen Brides (4 page)

As evening came on, first one, then another of the passengers rose and began preparations for the long night aboard the train, folding seats out to create berths, accepting pillows and blankets from the conductor, pulling down shades and closing shutters. With Jackson stretched out nearest to the window, Ruth lay on her back staring up at the paneled ceiling above her. The redhead’s cough was worse.
Sally Grant.
That was her name. The southerner was Caroline Jamison. Ruth glanced across the aisle, smiling at the sight of little Zita Romano curled up in the space left after her daughter Ella stretched out diagonally across the berth. Hettie had insisted on moving to the back of the car for the night so Ella and her mother would have more room. Ruth couldn’t remember ever meeting a woman as tall as Ella Barton before. It hadn’t taken but a moment over lunch to realize that she knew the most about farming of any of the members.

By the time each of the sixteen women around the table had introduced herself, it was time to get back on the train. Ruth hadn’t had a chance to draw Mr. Drake aside and inform him of Mr. Lucas Gray’s misunderstanding about the Ladies Emigration Society. Now, as she lay in the twilight thinking about it, she wondered anew how Mr. Gray had come to associate the Ladies Emigration Society with such poppycock as some kind of “bride business.”

Thinking about Lucas Gray made her wonder if all the men in Dawson County sported holsters and guns. Did they wear spurs that jangled when they walked? When she scolded Jackson—mildly— about speaking with a stranger, Jackson said that meeting Lucas Gray was like having Texan Joe step out of his book. The boy’s eyes shone with wonder as he talked about Mr. Gray’s invitation to visit “a real ranch.”

Ruth had to admit that her first experience with a real cowboy had been . . . interesting. He might lack a sense of proper etiquette around ladies, but Gray exuded a certain kind of charm. Not the kind of charm she would ever find attractive, of course, but still . . . charm. Sadly, he did walk right along the edge of propriety in his dealings with ladies. He spoke without being properly introduced, invited himself to sit and have tea, and expounded on personal topics that any gentleman—
Whatever happened to your plan to think positive thoughts? You were going to resist the habit of judging others so quickly, remember? For all your thinking of Mrs. Jamison as a rebel, hasn’t she been kind to that poor Sally Grant? And they’ve all been wonderful to Jackson. You were going to stop being so suspicious. Hope for the best. Look toward the light.

Brushing the back of her hand across her forehead, Ruth decided that perhaps she should exercise her new outlook in the matter of Mr. Lucas Gray. In fact, now that she thought about it, she wondered if he might have been having a little fun at her expense earlier today. Perhaps his mention of ordered brides and weddings and circuit riders was just another version of a tall tale. People initiated newcomers with things like that all the time.
Don’t forget how the men at Fort Wise “welcomed” new recruits.

The more she thought about it, the more certain Ruth was that that was exactly what had happened between her and Lucas Gray. In fact, the rascal would probably laugh when he recounted how he’d toyed with a “greenhorn.” Ruth forced a chuckle of her own. If Lucas Gray thought he was going to fool General George Washington Jackson Dow’s widow with wild talk about how westerners engaged in instant weddings, he was mistaken.

As for Jackson’s visiting Mr. Gray’s “spread,” that would never happen. Jackson Dow was not going on any flights of fancy about life in the west. He was going to school in Cayote, where he would study hard and graduate with perfect grades. If he got bored, he would work at the general store—or the livery, if it came to that. He liked animals, although Ruth wasn’t comfortable with the inherent dangers of working around horses. Be that as it may, in five years George Washington Jackson Dow II would be a freshman at Washington University in St. Louis, and this little trip into the west would be nothing more than fodder for stories to tell the General’s grandchildren someday.

Mail-order brides, indeed.
As night came on and murmurs gave way to snores, Ruth smiled to herself. Perhaps she’d entertain someone in St. Louis with her own tall tale about cowboys and such one day.

Wouldn’t that be amusing?

Hettie Gates had already awakened, freshened up, and returned to her temporary seat at the back of the emigrant car when the sun began to fade the indigo sky. Ella and Zita were still sleeping and Hettie was glad. She needed time to think. Chasing after the first train leaving St. Louis and falling—very literally—into the midst of something called the Ladies Emigration Society had opened entirely new possibilities. Dare she entertain them?

She’d expected to be found out at lunch, but as it turned out, Hamilton Drake wasn’t a very organized man. Hettie wasn’t the only woman he didn’t seem to remember from whatever meetings it was he’d held in St. Louis, and as the ladies each stood in turn and introduced themselves, Hettie was able to gather enough information to do a convincing job of things when it was her turn to speak. “I’m Hettie Raines,” she’d said without hesitation. Then, shoving her spectacles up, she’d looked away and said, “My husband is—was—a physician. And I . . . I really can’t talk about it.” With that, she’d sat down. The tears she shed at the mention of a husband were sincere enough. So was the comforting little pat on her arm and the smile from “the General’s wife.”

As the other women in the group began to stir, Zita looked Hettie’s way and waved her back to sit up front. Smoothing her hair, Hettie rose to rejoin her new friends. All things considered, it had been very simple to do away with Hettie Gates.

“We can’t be ‘here.’ ” Hettie turned in the direction of Mavis Morris, who warbled, “There’s no station. No town. There’s nothing but—” She pointed toward the water and the wide plank they would each have to walk to board the ferry waiting to take them across the Missouri. “I can’t possibly ride that little thing across that water.” Both chins quivered as Mavis fought back tears.

Tiny Zita Romano hurried past them all. Placing both feet on the plank, she turned about and waved for them to follow. “It’s nothing,” she said, gesturing toward the pilot, who waited just at the far end of the plank. “He’s done this a hundred times—perhaps a thousand—and it’s really nothing. Only a little river. Now, an ocean? Crossing an ocean with no land in sight for weeks.
That
was something.” After Zita nearly skipped up the plank, what could the others do but follow?

Still, Hettie lingered, not out of fear of the crossing, but because the river represented a final dividing line between her past and present. Behind her lay anguish and brokenness. Across the river with these ladies lay . . . oh, how she hoped something better. She glanced down the tracks toward Kansas City to the south.
There’s nothing to go back to. Everything you worked for has been destroyed and can’t be restored. You have to face that and move on. You’ve been given a second chance. Hope lies across that river.
With a last glance toward the south, Hettie went aboard the
Omaha Queen
.

Good-bye, Forrest . . . good-bye.

All beauty dwindled away. Oh, things stayed green, but after their next train left Omaha, meandering curves and gentle slopes gradually gave way to miles and miles of track headed due west atop an expanse of flat land that Ruth wouldn’t have known how to describe even if she did write Margaret—and she wasn’t certain she
would
write. At least not for a while. Being tossed out still stung. With a sigh, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. It wasn’t long before murmured protests made her open them again. Black earth stretched from horizon to horizon, somehow even more desolate juxtaposed against a cloudless blue sky.

Mr. Drake stepped through the door into the car. “Now, I know,”

he said, “that this looks bleak.”

Mrs. Morris spoke first. “You will keep your promise, right? If we want a return ticket—”

“Of course.” Drake nodded. “If, by Saturday of this week, any of you wishes to return, the Ladies Emigration Society has agreed to provide a ticket at no expense to you. Except, of course, a small fee for baggage and handling charges.” He waited until the murmured objections to this new information died down before continuing. “But you must realize that what we see as destruction, nature looks upon as a gift. Look carefully and you’ll see green shoots pushing their way through the charred grass.” He gestured toward the landscape. “This, dear ladies, is
renewal.
”

“That’s all well and good,” one of the sisters said. “But I think I speak for us all—” She glanced at the others, who nodded agreement. “I speak for us all when I say, Mr. Drake, that if Cayote has been similarly
renewed
this spring, we won’t be staying.”

“That is of course your right,” Drake said as he gave a little bow. “But I think you’ll find that Cayote holds many unexpected charms that will entice you to remain.” And with that, he exited the car. Again.

Something about the way Drake said the words
unexpected
and
charms
made Ruth uncomfortable. She glanced around the car at the other women and then stared back out the window. Perhaps it was the landscape. Perhaps it was loneliness. Whatever the cause, Mrs. General George Washington Jackson Dow felt small and bereft and foolish and, once again, a little afraid.

Neither witnessing the greening of the landscape nor finally coming out of the vast area that had been burned helped Ruth feel better. Western train stations were little more than unpainted shacks plopped down every ten miles or so at nondescript places marked by names painted with black letters on white boards. In some cases, the only sign of civilization was the station and the house the railroad provided for the stationmaster and his family—if he had one. Ruth comforted herself with the idea that at least she and Jackson would not be living that kind of life—alone in the only house on a desolate piece of land. They
would
settle near town. She would see to it.

Jackson had finished
Texan Joe
long ago and now sat peering out the window. When she patted his arm, he leaned close and rested his head on her shoulder in an uncharacteristic display of affection. “It’s . . .
big
land—isn’t it, Mother?” He sighed.